


teach me how to say goodbye

by amurderof



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (because y'know -- it's a reincarnation fic), (sort of), F/F, F/M, M/M, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death, Tropes, Tropes Everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amurderof/pseuds/amurderof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If savages go to the same place as the rest of the Maker’s good little children, what’s the point in being a good person?”</p><p>“Don’t—”</p><p>“Maybe we end up somewhere else, is all I’m saying. You really think a murky dreamscape of spirits and demons is gonna keep us apart?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	teach me how to say goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenityfails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityfails/gifts).



> i blame serenityfails and the entire squad, but mostly myself.
> 
> though i am pretty dang proud i managed to not indulge TOO many tropes. :')
> 
>  ~~(this is still v, v silly and unbeta'd.)~~ i have been told this fic is not silly and that you will cry. GOOD LUCK.

“I’ve never seen a qunari when I dream.”

“Qunari don’t dream.”

“I’ve never seen a qunari in the Fade, then.”

“If savages go to the same place as the rest of the Maker’s good little children, what’s the point in being a good person?”

“ _Don’t_ —”

“Maybe we end up somewhere else, is all I’m saying. You really think a murky dreamscape of spirits and demons is gonna keep us apart?”

A pause.

A laugh: fond, exasperated.

“No. No, I don’t.”

 

==

 

He’s cognizant, at least. Aware of himself, in a way that’s somehow divorced from the physical. He has feet, and hands, and he can walk, and stretch, but there’s a feeling of separation between himself and his body. Or what’s serving as his body.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, perhaps the only thing he’s fully capable of doing in the midst of this strangeness of form, and then, _I was asleep, and now I’m dead._

He smooths his hands down over the front of his favorite set of robes, lost years ago to… to blood and gore, a fight, heat and a gloriously terrifying excitement; to hands after, hurried and strong; to laughter.

The memory eludes him, and all he knows are the emotions that accompanied it, more solid than the events themselves: jubilation, arousal, the same excitement as before. Warmth. Love, maybe.

He wanders.

There are others — he passes by them and he sees them in the distance — who seem more rooted in their new existence, who are talking, laughing, reading, singing. He stops to watch two elven children, a girl delighting a younger boy with the wisps she conjures from the tips of her fingers.

His own hands are younger than he remembers. He concentrates, and they age before him, growing worn and roughening as he watches them; and he glances back at the children, who have run off, as children do. Or someone who wishes to be a child, he hopes.

Hope… that’s different.

A longing, particular in its intensity, and in the fact that he feels whole otherwise. A longing for something outside of himself. Something complementary. A warm voice, a firm hold. A...

There’s no way to track time here. The sun does not pass as he feels it should. The sun… he’s seen it, he thinks. There must be a sun.

He finds a lake, water clear and calm, and when he stands at its edge he can see himself reflected back in its surface — still younger than he remembers. Perhaps. He’s not sure. He doesn’t feel the age in his muscles, in his bones.

For the first time he notices the amulet hanging around his neck. It looks heavy. He touches it, feels the breadth of it, it should _feel_ heavy, but it is as nothingness as it lies on his breast. He knows what it is. He… _should_ know what it is, as sure as he knows anything else about himself.

His name: Dorian of… Dorian. The rest escapes him. Unimportant, lost with his more physical form.

His life: before. Before, and long, he thinks. Happy.

His amulet: half of a dragon’s tooth, inset with gold, strung up with a thick chain. It’s worn, like his hands. Old. He’s had it for many years. Its half is —

Oh.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, loudly enough that a nearby wisp darts about, casting light across the water, reflecting it across his face. _Oh, amatus_ , and he rises and has purpose when he moves now. Purpose, when he searches the faces of those he passes, humans and elves, damnable every one of them, for not being who he seeks.

For not being…

Kaffas.

He spends what must be years, searching.

He finds others, people he recognizes not by their forms, not initially, but by the way they feel when he approaches them. Cassandra is steady reassurance, Leliana, unwavering determination. Blackwall feels relieved, above all else; and Cullen, the same.

He knows Vivienne and Sera live still, and Varric — though Andraste knows where dwarves end up. The Inquisitor and her dear Josephine are missing, but he wouldn’t put it past either of them to find a way out of being so separated, either.

Separated.

There are no qunari in the Fade.

 _I can’t solve this from here_.

He drifts, losing time, if time passes at all in this place.

 _It’s… difficult, to stay focused_.

If only he were to move past the Fade, through the Veil… There are different points of entry, he knows this from Solas. If he were to enter from Par Vollen, perhaps he would find them. Perhaps he could…

He waits, and he hopes.

 

==

 

Hope finds him. Hope _finds_ him, a presence that reminds him of Cole, and whispers the possibilities in his ear.

 

==

 

The child’s weak, near to stillborn, grasping at life before it’s fully left its mother’s womb, and Dorian comforts it, reaches through the Veil and wraps its quietening soul in his arms. When it cries, he does as well, words lost to him, everything lost beyond what’s loud and bright and jarring.

 

==

 

“Mathias shows remarkable talent for his age,” Headmistress Magnusdottir says encouragingly, and Mathias sinks into his seat. It’s embarrassing.

When his parents glance at him though, pride clear on their faces, he feels a chill start at the base of his spine that he can’t explain.

Father reaches over and ruffles his hair, tugging on a strand. “Perhaps he can carry that over to his _chores_.”

The chill shakes through Mathias’s body and is gone.

He leans into the touch. His parents smile. He’s not sure where his hesitance is coming from, or why their love feels unnatural.

 

==

 

At night when he dreams, he dreams of the Fade. It’s comforting, or something close to it; and he feels like he’s _known_ there, like he’s coming home after a long time away.

But there’s also always something missing. He can’t place it.

 

==

 

A group of apprentices, seventh years with more free time than they should rightfully have, are caught in the midst of an attempted summoning.

Mathias feels the familiar longing while awake for the first time in his life.

 _It was only a spirit_ , one of the girls protests; _it wouldn’t have hurt us_ , a boy argues sincerely.

Mathias finds the books they had most recently consulted in the library, hiding them under the folds of his robes and absconding with them to his room before anyone can confiscate them.

He secrets them away under his mattress. He reads them late at night, friendly wisps lighting the pages.

One should know what they’re summoning. That’s what every book says, emphasized to varying degrees throughout. If one doesn’t know what one’s summoning, then one is simply opening a door to the Fade that anything can come through.

Mathias doesn’t know what he’s summoning, but the longing is near painful in his chest, and he has hope.

 

==

 

A creature — a monster, a great grey beast with wide horns — materializes inside the summoning circle and Mathias has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. It’s a qunari, but he’s only ever read about them, had rather thought they were _made up_ , but here one is, a humongous one or at least its spirit, ready to gore him for messing about with magic he doesn’t understand, except.

Except the beast. No. No, the qunari, the man, it. _He_ doesn’t look savage at all, if one disregards his manner of dress. He looks simply confused, gazing down at Mathias with one curious eye, as though trying to explain _his_ presence; and then his expression clears and his whole massive body shudders on an exhale, and he rumbles, “ _Kadan_ ,” and Mathias feels the emptiness, the longing, that’s been eating away deep inside his bones flooded. Filled.

“How…?” the qunari asks him, and Mathias aches to know the answer. To understand the question. His head feels filled with cotton, or as though he’s suddenly been stricken with a head cold.

“I just… came here,” he replies, even as the words don’t make a lick of sense, “I couldn’t find you. I tried to wait.”

“This place is fucking boring,” the qunari replies, huffing a laugh that ripples through his chest and shoulders. He sinks down to the floor and crosses his legs, and rubs one of his great hands on his left knee. “Don’t mind whatever fixed my joints though.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” Mathias says, and finds himself on the floor as well, knees bent as he sits on his feet. “I’m… I know you.”

“Yeah. Somehow.” The qunari smiles at him, like he’s dear, and Mathias curls his hands into fists against his thighs. And then the qunari sobers, and Mathias feels as though he’s been struck. “You possess that kid?”

“ _No_. No, I’m not,” Mathias protests, and he feels muddled still, and speaks without thinking through the words: “Hope helped. He was going to die. He let me… I let it happen. But I’m me now. Just me.”

The qunari stays silent, looks contemplative. Mathias is struck by the strange urge to smooth out his brow. “Shit. Guess I’ve gotta track down a spirit.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says, uncertain of why, and the qunari ignores him, asking, “Where are you?”

“Cumberland,” Mathias replies, and the qunari nods and stands, and Mathias clambers to his feet, reaching towards the summoning circle, “Please don’t, _stay_ —”

“No use being stuck in the fucking Fade when you’re in Nevarra, Dorian.”

Mathias trembles, and thinks _oh, **Dorian**_ , and says, “Amatus, _please_ ,” and Bull winks at him, and dissolves back into nothingness.

 

==

 

“Headmaster, Lord Vincenzo is arriving at the front gate now. Shall I direct him to your office?”

Mathias mumbles a yes and waves at his apprentice, who huffs a laugh under her breath and goes to see the newest addition to the university’s staff. The man comes highly praised, and Mathias expects to put him to work with the first years as soon as possible.

Mathias is too damn old to be herding children.

When the man arrives at his office, Mathias can’t find the words he needs to greet him, let alone what he would say to set the man to task immediately.

“Oh,” Matthias breathes, as his heart feels close to bursting.

“Pleasure to meet you,” the man responds — younger and human and unremarkable, and with a smile that Mathias hasn’t realized he’s dreamt of every night since that disastrous summoning.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he replies, tongue thick in his mouth, and tries to remember he’s too old of a man to make a fool out of himself.

 

==

 

“Took me a while, huh?”

Mathias laughs, and covers his mouth when the coughs start again, the ache in his chest almost overwhelming in its intensity. The devastations of age. A steady beat towards eternity.

When the coughs subside he reaches for Vincenzo, struggling to lift his hand. “This wasn’t enough. This wasn’t enough time. I won’t be without you again.”

Vincenzo leans over the bed, cups his face, and presses their foreheads together.

“We’ve got a system now. I’ll find you. Be something obvious, yeah? Not some no-name mage in Nevarra.”

 

==

 

Dorian waits. He waits, and when decades have passed, when Vincenzo, _Bull_ , would have died from nothing more malicious than old age, he searches for him. Vincenzo was human, surely…

But Dorian is himself, in the Fade. And Bull isn’t there.

 

==

 

Something _obvious_. It’s not as though he has an array of options.

 

==

 

Arcus lives a short, hard life, happy with his sister for the brief moments in between the raids, and when he shudders out his last breath he stares up at the Tal-Vashoth wielding the axe and wonders without knowing the reason, _Why would he be on Seheron?_

 

==

 

 _Obvious, not stupid_ , Dorian thinks angrily.

 

==

 

“Nice rack,” the elf tells her, glancing between her chest and her horns baldfacedly.

Tamul feels her lips curl up against her own will, normally iron-clad. The elf is half her size. She could crush her like a nug. And yet...

“I’m not interested,” she replies plainly, and the elf looks disappointed for half a moment before rallying.

“Not even if I bought you a drink?”

The elf’s a small thing, lithe frame with little curve to her, dark hair tied up behind her head in several knots, clothes ill-fitting and clearly scavenged.

There’s… there’s something about her.

Tamul’s not a romantic. Not anymore. She’s moved beyond that sort of shit. Years of thinking she’d be good for something, for the Qun, only to find out she had to haul ass out of Qunandar if she didn’t want her mouth stitched shut’s pulverized any useless flights of fancy.

Except.

“Tamul,” she says, and sticks out her hand.

“Mari!” The elf shakes it, grinning, and when she draws her hand back her thumb drags across Tamul’s wrist.

Tamul doesn’t tremble. She breathes in steadily, and tries to ignore the feeling of something slotting into place.

 

==

 

 _I was a qunari_ , Dorian snarls, glaring at his own reflection in the lake, one he had trouble recognizing for all of a moment — expecting height, and girth, and impressive horns, and _breasts_ , for Andraste’s sake. _Why am I still in this forsaken stretch of Fade?_

But of course it doesn’t work like that.

He is also always himself.

 

==

 

Burk travels. Something within him itches to wander from a young age, and he earns his keep as a locomotive engineer first, and then a smuggler. He dies ignobly during an unexpected raid, breaking into tears at the sight of a member of the guard wearing an eyepatch.

Lucille works as a housemaid in the estate of an Anders nobleman, and marries when she should. She lives until she’s grey and wizened, grandchildren about her feet, and doesn’t show her discontent, or how she never feels whole.

Brigid writes, and lectures, and protests on the steps of Minrathous’s parliament, about how despite what the chancellor claims Tevinter’s elves are still second class citizens, and about the need for legislative action to protect the most vulnerable members of their society — until she’s grabbed bodily by a dwarven policeman and dragged off towards their fucking paddy wagon.

She elbows him in the face, blood gushing from his nose and onto her skirts as he releases her, and she’s already swung herself around to run towards the nearest alley, whatever’s the easiest route to dodge the bastards, when the dwarf lets loose a string of curses that for some reason sets the hairs on her arms on end.

“Was that… _Qunlat_?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” the dwarf overenunciates, and tips his head back. “Shit. Yes. Sometimes you can’t express how fucking awful a situation is in fewer than four languages.”

Brigid has no idea why she isn’t running. An elf assaulting an officer on the steps of the-Creators-fucking-Parliament is going to get the book thrown at her. She should be hightailing it out of here, and her legs won’t move.

“Why do you know Qunlat?”

The dwarf hacks and spits blood against the cobblestones. “Why do _you_ know Qunlat?”

“I’m educated,” Brigid sneers, and the dwarf looks up at her and gives her a smile full of blood.

She really should run.

 

==

 

The dwarf’s name is Piotr, and he helps her keep out of trouble with the police. He hates politics, but likes punching things. He thinks the passion she has for every-fucking-thing is “amazing”.

She reads to him from a book of Qunlat poetry that’s always given her comfort, for some strange reason, and when he eventually calls her his kadan she laughs so hard, she cries.

 

==

 

 _I can’t do this again,_ Dorian thinks, and when he looks at his reflection this time he sees hints of elf and human. He doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to look like. Perhaps halfway across the Fade, there’s a bit of him with the dwarves, or with the rest of the Maker-damned qunari. _Even when I manage to find him, it’s temporary by design. This is not a solution. This is a stopgap._

Hope comes to him again, whispering its encouragements, but he sits by the lake for what must be generations.

 

==

 

Danny knows what the talking heads say about him: _Oh, that one’s an old soul. You can see it in his face. He always looks at you like you’re beneath him_.

He’s tired, mostly. He’s been tired for most of his life. He doesn’t know if it’s the work itself, or the constant stress of the paparazzi, or the knowledge that somewhere on the fucking internet there are pictures of him that have no fucking reason to be there.

He does interviews because he needs to, because they’re in his contract, and because then he can disagree with his parents when they say they haven’t seen him in months. They watch EW like everyone else over the age of fifty — of course they’ve seen him.

Sometimes, when he’s alone with his thoughts, he feels like he’s in the middle of his last chance, and he’s blowing it.

He wishes he knew what the fuck that meant.

 

==

 

“Mr Basra? They’re ready for you.”

He swallows down what he’d rather say to that and gives the assistant a bland smile. She leads him to the soundstage and he freezes when his soles hit the shiny glass floor. The biggest qunari he’s ever seen in his entire life’s sitting in one of the other seats for the round robin, and Danny can barely find words to greet the other participants.

Later, he hopes desperately that he wasn’t clearly staring during the entire segment.

(He was.)

The qunari — Anwar Oroshok, and if you watch Danny closely in the aired version you can see him repeating that name several times as though trying to memorize it — is a professor of Tevinter history, and has more than a few strong opinions about the legitimacy of Danny’s latest stint, an independent biopic about the life of Dorian Pavus, the pariah and revolutionary. (It’s not a passion project, per se — Danny’s not a fucking fanboy. But he likes history as much as the next vint, and Pavus looms large in the history books.)

Oroshok brings out the big guns quick: _Pavus, for all his well-known faults, was an accomplished politician and intermediary between Tevinter and the Qunari. He had an understanding of the Qun few non-Qunari could claim during the Dragon Age, and hell, for another three hundred years._

 _You subscribe to the idea he was a sympathizer_ , one of the other panelists interjected, a woman Danny doesn’t remember the name of, and there was laughter around the table.

Oroshok had lifted a shoulder in a shrug, but when he’d replied, he was frank. _I subscribe to the idea he had a Qunari lover_.

And _that_ had set off a series of laughing protests — and a dull ache in the pit of Danny’s stomach.

 

==

 

Oroshok lists his university email on his class website, and Danny wishes it’d taken him longer to decide whether or not he was going to email him.

>> _What’s the source? -DB_

In response Danny receives not a link, nor an article, but a fucking testimonial about Dorian Pavus, gay magister.

“I’m not sure why I’m supposed to care,” Danny says, tone purposefully clipped, when Oroshok answers on the third ring.

“I keep my phone number in my signature so students can call,” Oroshok replies steadily, and Danny rolls his eyes and breathes out loudly.

“Well, I’m trying to _learn_ , and aren’t we all students of life, blah blah bullshit, etc. I’ve read through your ode to Pavus’s proclivities.”

Oroshok whistles low. “You read fast.”

“I read fast,” Danny confirms, and before he can ask his next question, Oroshok’s laughing in his ear.

“If this is gonna be an interrogation, you’re going to buy me dinner first.”

Danny sputters.

Danny also buys Oroshok dinner.

 

==

 

“This gonna be thing?”

“I — what?”

“Are you gonna keep feeding me dinner under the guise of wanting to talk vint history?”

“You — you think you’re clever, but I have news for you.”

“I am!”

“You’re really not.”

 

==

 

“Pavus never married,” Oroshok — _Anwar_ says pointedly, ignoring the bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth while he gestures at Danny with the slice of pizza in his hand.

“The Imperium imploded halfway through his tenure, and the resulting unrest set half the country on fire. He could have been married, and the documents are simply lost to us.”

Anwar snorts, and hands Danny his crust. Danny drags it through the tub of extra sauce and lifts an eyebrow at him before shoving it in his mouth.

“There are pictures of his tomb, old shitty grainy pictures, which somebody ‘lost’ the negatives of. He wasn’t entombed alone.”

“He was a necromancer, and of high enough rank within Tevinter to warrant pomp and circumstance.”

There’s still sauce on Anwar’s face. For one asinine moment Danny imagines licking it off.

“There were two sarcophagi, laid three inches from each other, and the other one had the remains of a fucking massive qunari in it. Male, based on the size, shape of the skull and pelvis. The sarcophagi were carved, and even though the wood’s started rotting you can see the distinct shapes of two men, hands reaching across to the other sarcophagus. Like they were trying to hold hands.”

Danny stares at him. “And no one else talks about this because…?”

“The yokel who first excavated the tomb didn’t take pictures right away. He also didn’t let anybody else get in there, outside of his close-knit team. He had a handful of months to fuck with anything in there, stage it as he liked. Or that’s what’s argued.”

“But you’ve seen the pictures.”

Anwar finally seems to notice the sauce on his face, and wipes it off with the back of his hand. He licks across his knuckles and Danny holds his breath.

“You can’t study Tevinter without spending a lot of time on the Qunari. There was this tradition only referenced in passing, mostly in Rivaini texts, about splitting a dragon’s tooth and two lovers, friends — interpretations vary — carrying the halves with them. An ancient friendship necklace. That shit’s hard to track down, and a century ago when Pavus’s tomb was discovered? Nobody’d really dug into it yet. But Pavus and the qunari had a fucking dragon’s tooth split between them. It’s in the pictures.”

Danny leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Okay. Okay, say you’re right. Who cares?” The words get out of his mouth and he feels sick, a wave of it moving over him, like the pizza was off and his stomach’s just getting the memo. He swallows again. “What’s it matter?”

Anwar shrugs one of his huge shoulders. “Just think the guy would like everyone to know who he was. He probably slogged through a decade of bullshit for not playing by Tevinter’s rules. Who knows what he did?”

 _Searched for centuries, and lost and lost and lost,_ Danny thinks, frowning, and shoves another one of Anwar’s crusts in his mouth.

 

==

 

“There you are,” Anwar tells him when Danny walks up to the front of their favorite restaurant, fancier and more secluded than Anwar’s used to, but something he’s told Danny he’ll _endure_ for him. “Somebody likes to take his sweet time. I’ve been waiting forever.”

Danny freezes to the curb, his head pounding like he ran into something solid, and he opens and closes his mouth for what feels like five minutes. “I — what?”

“Is being fashionably late an actor thing? You’re not impressing anybody,” Anwar grouses but holds the door open for him, once Danny remembers how to walk.

 

==

 

 _Don’t wait_ , a voice inside Danny’s head tells him. _There’s never enough time. Don’t wait_.

The next time Anwar starts muttering about choosy vints while professing not to have an opinion about dinner, whilst simultaneously shooting down half of Danny’s suggestions, Danny grabs his arm and pulls him close, and doesn’t imagine Anwar breathing out _fucking finally_ before they kiss.

 

==

 

“I feel like I knew you the second I met you,” Danny whispers into the dark of his bedroom, Anwar breathing slow and steady beside him. “That’s weird, isn’t it.”

“Glad you didn’t say that on our first date,” Anwar replies after half a minute of pretending he’s asleep, and Danny huffs a laugh. “ _That_ would’ve been weird.”

Danny rolls onto his side, and waits until Anwar’s profile defines itself. “Do you believe in life after death?”

“Sure.” Anwar shifts on the mattress, until one of his arms is looped around Danny’s back. “I mean, why not.”

 _Sometimes I think I’ve known you for centuries_ , Danny doesn’t say.

Anwar drags his nails lightly across Danny’s shoulder blades. “I like the idea of hanging out with the people I care about after I croak.”

Danny swallows against the sudden urge to cry.

 _Please_ , he thinks futilely, nonsensically.

 _Please_ , he hopes, with every ounce of himself.

 

==

 

It becomes a mantra. A strange, morbid sort of daily prayer that he can’t entirely explain to himself, so he doesn’t.

 

==

 

Hope is warm as it moves around and through him. Comforting. He doesn’t open his eyes, because he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to see humans, and elves, and that damned lake.

 _Don’t give up_ , Hope whispers, and Dorian lays still.

 _I’m not giving up_ , he thinks petulantly. _You can’t give up if you don’t fucking start_.

 _You’re not still dead_ , something — something _not Hope_ says above him, and Dorian’s eyes snap open and he stares up at the child looming over him. The grey-skinned child looming over him. _You can move around and stuff now._

The grey-skinned child, with small horn nubs at her temples, looming over him.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, and Hope titters in his ear. _Oh, I had hoped_ …

 _Very loudly_ , Hope says kindly, _with devoted frequency. I wanted to help_.

Dorian stumbles onto his feet and sets to running as soon as he’s up.

The Fade is different here, even though it all looks the same, strange rock formations and imitations at landscape. There are qunari, men and women and children, and they watch him as he moves, a strange human, careening through their final resting place — what a nuisance.

And then there’s simply a familiar silhouette, and a voice he knows so well, arguing with a spirit of Compassion about how fucked this all is—

 _Amatus_ , Dorian says, voice thick, shoulders shaking, when he lurches to a stop.

Bull turns to face him, face slack with surprise, and the spirit of Compassion hums, pleased, and winds itself around Bull before slipping away.

 _Hey, you got it to work_ , Bull says, smile wide across his face, and Dorian throws himself into his arms, grabbing hold of his horns and pressing their foreheads together as fluidly as he can manage.

 _I’d hoped it would_ , Dorian replies, and Bull laughs and kisses him, presses kisses to his lips, his chin, his neck, every inch of skin he can reach.

 _I’d hoped_ , he repeats, and finally, finally, feels at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! i'd love to hear from you if you liked it, either via a comment below, or over on ye ol' [tumblr](http://amurderof.tumblr.com/ask).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] teach me how to say goodbye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073108) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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